


Blessing

by SavageSeraphim



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Fake AH Crew, Immortal Fake AH Crew, Mentions of Death, Ryan-centric, The Golden Boy, The Vagabond, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 03:56:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10403385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SavageSeraphim/pseuds/SavageSeraphim
Summary: Themes of Immortality, Crew Bonding, Destructive Tendencies, and Time.(In which the Vagabond is Immortal, the rest of the Fakes are Not, and this is dealt with as well as one can expect.)





	

When the Vagabond meets his reckoning he is young, hungry, and covered in the blood of more soldiers than he had bothered to count. They invaded his home, yes, but the rest of his community had been willing to simply bow their heads, accept a new ruler whom they would never see at the cost of the old whom they had never met. It isn’t some grand sense of justice or pithy loyalty that spurns the sudden fight. It can hardly even be considered a personal affront that begins the confrontation. 

But when the first blood is spilled it spurns something in him, like a bolt of lightning hitting water and spreading through his veins and suddenly he’s up to his knuckles in some soldier’s blood, an iron dagger jabbed deep in his gut and there’s suddenly no turning back from the fight.

The Vagabond loves to spin stories about how it started, what the catalyst was - The soldier insulted him, tried to steal from his home, tried to push him, kicked his dog. No one’s totally sure which is true, if any, but the fact of the matter is that the soldier died and more took his place and the Vagabond, hardly out of his teens in age, slaughtered every last one. The story is grotesque, it’s nonsensical, but far overshadowed by what always, inevitably steals the spotlight. 

A blessing. The word is always blessing, spoken with smooth reverence, unrepentant when others flinch or scowl at the word. Because there is a deity which takes interest, who makes an investment in the bloodied, triumphant Vagabond as a personal agent of chaos. He never elaborates, never gives a name, and there is no way of telling whether his evasiveness is by nature or by law - But if it is by law, it is the only that the Vagabond is ever known to follow. The story, for all it is strange and unsettling, is never disputed.

The evidence is enough when a bullet strikes true to the Vagabond’s temple and he comes back the next evening at his murderer’s dinner table, making polite conversation with the other residents of the house.

There’s no doubting that the car he was in was smashed between a sixteen-wheeler and a concrete barrier and turned to compressed wreckage, and yet he came back a week later robbing a grocery store blind of his favorite soda.

And there’s certainly no questioning the fact that even within his own crew, in the early days, each had tested some form of poison only to have their newest member smile up at them in the manner that is unsettlingly, blatantly aware as he finishing off his meal, his coffee, whatever he’d trusted one of the others to make and never once complain about as much as a stomach ache. 

They continue to hire him. He continues to kill for them. The mayhem and destruction of the Vagabond is painted under the bright green logo of the Fakes and he doesn’t seem to mind in the slightest. 

The Vagabond insists on riding in his own vehicle during heists and eventually, they stop wondering if he’ll come home after a particularly nasty firefight or crash.

He always does. 

It’s unnerving. It’s frightening. But as all things, eventually, it becomes less so. The Vagabond lounges on the penthouse couch, brings home fast food, plays video games and schemes just as energetically in digital plots as he does in flesh and blood heists and over time they come to accept this. 

Their somehow unkillable, otherworldly crew member who took a nosedive in a jet yesterday and made it back in time to plan their next bank job over dinner.

Gavin is the first to be so blatant about it, his inane, pestering questions are to be expected. How old is the Vagabond? How many times has he died? 

(“Never.” The answer comes with a roll of eyes and a sharp grin, met with exasperated complaining and clarifications. “How many things should have killed you then?” “None.” No amount of rephrasing begets a solid answer.) 

The question that is never asked, never ventured even by the insatiable curiosity of the Golden Boy or the blunt straightforward nature of Mogar, is how. How to gain favor, to gain ‘Blessing’ as the Vagabond has. They whisper of it out of earshot, or what they think is out of earshot. Too many drinks among the lads. Quiet nights between Ramsey and Pattillo. 

They would never think of it as a gift that the Vagabond could give at his will.

Not until blood stains unforgiving concrete crimson, when bullets tear through flesh and bone and leave one of their own struggling for breath. 

Not until the desperation is saturating every still moving body, the volatile human nature to seek any and all solutions to a loss that they cannot fathom. 

It’s the nature of the Fakes that when the danger passes they look back upon that moment with fondness, with unbridled laughter relentless teasing. 

(“You picked him, Ryan? Seriously? You do realize what you’ve signed up for - Fucking eternity with this prick.” The brawler’s tone is incredulous but his smile is all relief and a deep-set appreciation, bumping shoulders with his ‘boi’. Bright emerald eyes glimmer with that same unsettling light that follows the Vagabond’s gaze, but the laughter is blatantly familiar. “What, Michael, are you sayin’ you wouldn’t wanna -” “Oh shut up.”)

The Vagabond makes no promises on what will happen next time - The always inevitable ‘Next Time’, when one of the Crew ends up peppered in bullets or ripped apart in an explosion. He tells the Golden Boy in blunt terms that he and the Vagabond are different in their Blessings, and he will not be able to do what the Vagabond has done for him for the others.

He’s not totally sure if Gavin believes him.

He’s not totally sure if it’s the truth. 

He does know that the deity that Blessed him is already pleased with the Golden Boy, his capacity for mayhem in his own clever, malicious talents. Sowing discord amongst the people that the Vagabond may simply tear down to ruin, watching the destruction play out without lifting so much as a ring-laden finger to start the conflict.

The Vagabond thinks that the Golden Boy would have made a truly horrific king back when such titles were far easier to obtain. 

Of course, there’s still time. For the Vagabond, that is one certainty, and now it is one which is shared.

There is always more time.

**Author's Note:**

> Based loosely on the concept of a Chaos deity which selects the Vagabond (and, presumably, others) to live eternally as agents of Mayhem/Destruction/ect. And allows that power to be given to others who meet a similar standard.


End file.
